I swallow my anxiety. I haven’t had a chance to talk to Emmett for more than five seconds since first period. A few passing words in the hall before fifth period. Now’s as good a time as any to fill him in. “I ran into Holly in the bathroom today. She figured out that I’m the one who recorded her conversation. I denied it but I don’t think she believed me.”
He waves a hand dismissively. “Whatever. Ignore her. It’s not like she’s gonna do anything.”
“Are you sure about that?” Because girls like the one Jen described don’t just roll over and move on. “She thinks I stole you from her.”
He snorts. “We broke up because I found out she’s a bitch.”
“And she told me I’m going to regret it.” I kick at a loose stone on the sidewalk. “I’m kind of hoping to avoid being a target here. Been there, done that. It’s not fun.”
I feel Emmett’s steady gaze on my profile as we round the bend in the street, but I keep my eyes on Murphy, his nose prodding the bushes that line the sidewalk.
“Maybe we should cool it for a bit, until she’s moved on.”
“No! I mean …” I temper my panic at that terrible suggestion. “I don’t want to do that.”
His lips twist in thought. “Is your mom still out there?”
“Uh … I can’t see the house from—”
Emmett’s mouth captures mine in a searing kiss that pulls me right back into the headiness of last night in his bedroom. His one hand slips beneath my hair to cradle the back of my neck while the other snakes around my waist, easing me into his body. I forget all my worries—my past life, the C+ on my math quiz, the kamikaze cat waiting in the bushes, the potential wrath of Holly—as I sink into his warm body, tasting mint on his breath as his tongue slips over mine in a seductive dance.
A car gives a light honk on the way past, reminding me that we’re standing on the street.
“Did you actually want to talk about our project?” I ask in a shaky voice.
“No.” He laughs, releasing me from his hold, glancing around. “Mower’s having people over Saturday night. You think your mom will let you go?”
“Maybe?” I’ll beg and plead if I have to.
He shrugs. “I figured it’d be a good way to ring in your sixteenth birthday.”
“Sixteen minus an hour. My curfew’s eleven,” I admit with bitterness.
His face pinches. “Even on your birthday?”
“We’ll see.” Maybe I’ll ask when I get home, while she’s still buzzing from her tile-shopping non-date with the handyman.
“Try. His parents are going away for the weekend so it’ll be a good time.”
“I’ll probably leave that detail out.”
Emmett chuckles. “Good idea. And he lives over there.” He points to a side street up ahead, lined with grand oaks and sizable houses. “So we can walk. No worries about driving.”
Which, I’m guessing, means Emmett’s planning on drinking. “You don’t have hockey?”
“Not on Thanksgiving weekend. It’s one of the only weekends I can let loose.”
What does that mean? Is he planning on getting drunk? What is Emmett like when he’s drunk?
Jen’s words hit me then, about how he and Holly were known to “go at it” at parties. I witnessed it firsthand. Well, I witnessed the prelude and then the hickey aftermath.
What’s going to happen at Mower’s house this weekend? What is Emmett going to expect from me, still very much a virgin?
When do we have that conversation?
Murphy squats.
“Oh, shit,” I mutter.
“Yeah. Literally.”
“No … I mean, I didn’t bring a bag!” I check my jacket pockets in case there’s an extra one from the shelter visit.
There isn’t.
As discreetly as possible, I glance around at the houses, to make sure no one’s watching.
The moment Murphy has finished, Emmett declares, “Run!” and we take off at a slow jog toward our houses, allowing Murphy to keep up.
We laugh the entire way.
17
Dear Julia,
I’m petrified of this Saturday night.
Is that stupid? Because it feels stupid to be so nervous. It’s Emmett, after all. But … IT’S EMMETT. I don’t want to screw this up by saying or doing the wrong thing, or doing something the wrong way. Do all teenaged girls worry about this kind of stuff or am I strange? This is when I wish Denise and I were still friends. Maybe I should ask Jen. I’m guessing she’s still a virgin, but she’s also smart and level-headed. She’d probably give good advice. I don’t know if Mom will let me go anyway. Mick ended up staying for dinner tonight, so it didn’t feel like the right time to ask. Or maybe it would’ve been the perfect time, with Mick there and her in a bubbly, non-Mom mood. But I was getting creeped out with all the secret looks they kept giving each other, so I ate and then hid up in my room.
Mick’s okay, by the way. A bit of a dork—he tried to strike up a conversation with me about Star Wars—but he seems nice enough. He doesn’t have any kids. That’s a bonus. I don’t need any more stepbrothers or -sisters. The ones in Calgary are more than enough.
So … I guess I’ll ask her about Mower’s house tomorrow, after the cross-country meet.
~AJ
* * *
“Did you double-check your laces?” Richard points a stubby finger at my running shoes and I look on instinct. “Yeah. Twice.”
“All right! Go whoop some Xavier ass for us.” The second cross-country mini-meet is at a conservation area near Xavier Secondary in Klemptville. They’re a big rival high school for Eastmonte and also where Jen and Holly both came from before moving.
I size up the runners readying on the start line. Most of them are tall—one looks like she’s teetering on six feet. “I don’t know. I’m guessing some of those girls can go the distance.”
“So can you. And you’re fast. That’s a deadly combination in this sport. Stay with the pack.” He pats my shoulder. “You’re Aria Jones and you can do this.”
I laugh, though I don’t think Richard was trying to be funny. “Thanks for the pep talk. See you in a bit.” I take my place in our team’s box at the starting line—a white streak of chalk marking the trail—ever aware of Holly settling in directly beside me. Almost as if she was waiting for me to find my spot before taking hers. Now I’m being paranoid, I tell myself.
I edge a step to the left, to put some distance between us, but it’s futile as the rest of our teammates move in, eating up the space.
“Runners, ready!”
We take our starting positions. Adrenaline courses through me.
“Good luck, SWF,” Holly murmurs in that faux sweet voice a second before the official fires the starting pistol.
I launch myself forward to fall into place with the herd, careful to avoid getting tangled in the encroaching knees and legs. The start of these races has always been the most stressful and my least favorite, ever since I watched three girls trip over each other in seventh grade. One ended up with a broken ankle.
SWF?
What the hell does that mean?
I roll the initials in my head, coming up with random words.
Stupid? Whore? Fake?
The only thing I can be sure of is that it wasn’t intended to be kind, and Holly intentionally threw it at me right before the gun went off to rattle me.
Screw her.
I set my jaw with determination and push Holly’s jab out of my mind as we pass the official at the fifty-meter mark. A few girls are outpacing the group ahead. As much as I want to put distance between myself and Holly, I avoid the urge to run faster just yet. Moretti warned us that this trail would be challenging, the hills steeper, the terrain rough.
Slut? Is that what the “S” stands for?
Wouldn’t that be a little ironic, given—unlike her—I’m still a virgin.
I sense someone closing in on my right, getting too close for my liking.
But I fail and tumble to the ground, my knee landing on the sharp gravel.
The runners behind me maneuver last minute and continue past as I struggle to get to my feet. Ahead, Holly glances over her shoulder once before continuing.
As if to make sure I’m down.
There’s no way that was an accident. How the hell she managed to trip me like that, and to stay on her feet, though …
Frustration and anger—at her, but mostly at me—flares, my eyes prickling with tears. My focus was broken, that’s how.
And we’ve passed the hundred-meter mark. They won’t restart the race, but maybe I can still catch up. I take a step forward, and pain lances through my knee.
“Aria!” Moretti’s standing at the sideline, her raven bob swishing with her head shake. She waves me over.
I hobble off the course much like my old dog would.
“It’s a mini-meet—not worth it. Not with regionals coming up.” Her face twists with sympathy. “That looked like it hurt. Are you okay?”
“I think so.”
Richard has procured a folding chair from somewhere. I offer him my thanks as I settle into it, peeling my pant leg up.
Moretti winces at the quarter-sized patch of missing skin and the blood. At least it’s not dripping with blood. “Can you try to bend it for me?”
I hiss from the sting as I do as asked.
“Okay. Clean that well and ice it for tonight. Fifteen minutes on, fifteen off.” She frowns, her gaze on the runners in the distance. They’re climbing a slight hill, spread out now, the leaders of the pack making their move. “It looked like you and Holly got tangled but I couldn’t see clearly. What happened?”
She ambushed me.
It’s on the tip of my tongue.
“I tripped,” I say instead.
“You sure?” Her eyes narrow in a way that makes me think she saw more than she’s letting on, that she suspects more than she’s saying.
But I’m not stupid. I already know how this is going to play out—Holly will return after the race, all doe-eyed and full of worry, apologizing profusely for “accidentally” crossing paths with me. She’ll swear she didn’t know what to do—hang back or keep going. She’ll be so thankful that I’m okay. Maybe shed a few tears to cement her innocence.
And, in the end, suspicions or not, Moretti will believe her, because Moretti wants to believe her. She doesn’t want to think that one of her runners could harm another like that, and all over a boy.
I’ll end up looking like the problem.
And if I bring up the SWF reference?
Holly will deny it. Her face will become a portrait of innocent confusion. I have no idea what she’s talking about, Ms. Moretti, I swear! I just wished her good luck!
Or she’ll have an innocuous answer for what that might stand for. Something kind and flattering.
This is what girls like Holly do. This is how they get away with their cruelty—they hide their toxic underbelly with a honeyed veneer for adults, and adults buy it because they want to.
Or they shrug it off as typical teenage behavior.
The Hollys get away with it.
And then they do something else. Something worse.
And the cycle continues.
I study the grass at my feet. “Yeah, I’m sure. We got tangled.”
* * *
Dear Julia,
Single white female. That’s what SWF stands for. I Googled it. As in, I’m some sort of stalker.
Holly basically called me a stalker. And then she tripped me!
Of course, like I expected, she pretended to be “oh so sorry!” (insert apologetic, concerned treacherous doe eyes here).
Maybe I can use this as my excuse to quit cross-country. Though, I think I’ll get so much more satisfaction from beating her at regionals. Is that too catty a thought? I can’t tell anymore.
All I know is that I hate Holly Webber and I don’t feel an ounce of guilt over showing Emmett that video anymore. In fact, I’ll be sure to stick my tongue in his mouth the next time she’s—
Mom’s signature knock sounds on my bedroom door and then she pokes her head into my room. “How you doing?” Her concerned eyes shift first to my knee—cleaned, bandaged, and propped atop the desk chair I dragged over to my window seat, bag of frozen peas chilling the ache—and then to the diary on my lap.
I shut the book. “I’m fine. It’s already feeling better.” Because it’s numb.
“Good. I’m glad to hear it. Listen … so …” She edges in, folding her arms over her chest. “Mick asked me out to dinner tonight. To that cute little Italian place we drove past the other day. You remember—Nonna’s? The one with the red-and-white-checkered awnings.”
“Okay?”
“But I don’t have to go,” she rushes to say. “I can stay home with you. If you need me to.”
“Why would I need you to?” I pause. “Unless you’re looking for an excuse to turn him down, in which case I am dying and they may need to amputate, so you should stay with me. I’m on board with whatever. Just let me know what to say.”
She chuckles. “No, it’s not that I don’t want to.” Her gaze searches the cluster of yellow stars stuck to the ceiling above my bed. “I spent twenty years married to the wrong man. A complete schmuck. Twenty years. And here I am, going on a first date again. I don’t know if I’m ready. Plus, Mick is a good man but he’s never been married and, at his age, that raises alarm bells.”
“It’s just pasta.”
Her lips twist in thought. “It’s just pasta. You’re right.” Shaking her head at herself, she stands taller. “So, you’ll be fine at home alone tonight, then? Well, Uncle Merv is here, but he’ll be in bed soon.”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Oh!” Her eyes flash. “And I was thinking, if your knee is good enough, we could get mani-pedis tomorrow morning and then, I don’t know, maybe head into the city to go shopping? You know, make a day of it, for your birthday.”
“Umm … Yeah, that sounds great.” It’s now or never. “And there’s this guy at school who’s having a few people over to his house tomorrow night. It’s around the corner. Like, a five-minute walk. So, I was thinking of going.” I figure the key to this is telling her, not asking her.
“Will this boy’s parents be there?”
I bend my knee intentionally, so I’m forced to wince and have an excuse for shifting my eyes when I lie. “As far as I know.”
She shrugs. “Okay. Sounds good.”
My phone chirps with an incoming text.
How was the meet?
I can’t keep the wide grin from showing when Emmett’s name appears, despite his question.
“Let me guess … a certain boy from next door?” Mom smiles knowingly. “So, what’s going on between you two?”
I shrug, trying to act nonchalant. “We’re hanging out.”
“Right. ‘Hanging out.’ That’s what the kids call it.” She bites her bottom lip. “Maybe we should have a conversation soon, about what it means to have a boyfriend—”
“I’ve already had a boyfriend, Mom. Two, actually.”
“Oh?” Surprise fills her face before she smooths it over. “Anyone I know?”
“No. They were from my old school. But … no.”
“I see.” She hesitates, then asks, “And have you ever …” Her eyes widen.
“Mom.” My face flares with heat. “Let’s stick to the daily three for now.” As much as she’s pushing for this whole open-and-honest communication, we’re not at the chatting-about-our-sex-lives stage. I kind of hope we never get there.
She purses her lips. “Fine. Just know that you can come and talk to me about that kind of stuff.”
“Uh-huh.” No, thank you.
“And remember, Emmett is older than you and probably—well, hopefull
y—more experienced.”
I groan and close my eyes. I so regret ever telling her about the hickey.
“I want to make sure you’re being careful and—”
“This just started.” And I want this conversation over with.
“Yes, well, these things have a way of moving fast when you really like the boy. And I can tell that you really like this boy.” She smiles. “And for the record, so do I.”
My phone chirps with another text.
So, what’s the plan for tonight?
My heart flutters. He assumes we’re doing something tonight.
“Actually, I’m probably going to hang out with Emmett tonight.”
“You need to be off that.” She points at my leg.
“I know. I’ll see if he wants to watch a movie or something.”
“At their house. Where there’s an adult present who doesn’t go to bed at eight and sleep like the dead,” she warns, heading for her bedroom, her hum carrying through my open door.
I read the texts again, and decide how I should answer. There’s no way I’m telling him that Holly did this. He might do something crazy again like suggest we take a break from us. No way. “In case you were wondering how psychotic your ex is …” I say to myself, aiming my phone at my leg. I snap the picture and hit Send.
* * *
A form hovers inside the Hartford front door as I approach, Murphy toddling beside me, his leash dragging on the ground. I was surprised Emmett told me to bring him for Cassie, given his dad’s allergies, but I guess they can’t be that severe.
“They’re here!” Cassie’s voice carries and then the door flies open and she steps out, her focus going straight for the dog. “Hi, Murph! You’re going to watch a movie with us!” she exclaims, dismissing me entirely.
His tail wags.
“Oh, you’re hurt.” Cassie’s eyes dart from the grocery bag in my hand to my leg as I ease up the porch steps, wincing. “Mom! Emmett! AJ’s hurt!” To me, she demands, “What happened?” Her expression waffles between concern and curiosity, as if unsure which to land on.
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